


Roxanne

by baku_midnight



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Homophobic Language, Incest, M/M, Non-zombie au, Not Really A Happy Ending, Possibly OOC, Prostitution, Racial slurs, Sibling Incest, mentions of abuse, prostitute!Daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merle manages to hold his temper and stays in the army a good four years, and the environment is good for him. It makes him a better man. But when he gets back home and finds out how Daryl’s been supporting himself, he’s not sure the change was worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roxanne

**Author's Note:**

> Works best if you imagine Daryl wearing this outfit [ampkiss.tumblr.com/post/97194227806/] (black negligee with a pink robe over top, and a cigarette constantly in his mouth). This was the image I couldn't get out of my head and I just had to write about it. The fic is more angsty than the photo suggests, however. Basically just an excuse to get Merle and Daryl bumpin' uglies with Daryl in that outfit.

The bar is smoggy, the wet and cloudy evening seeping in through the mouldy drywall, smoke and breath fogging up the windows. The sharp change from the sticky Georgia heat to the air-conditioned cool slices across him as he enters, nose twitching as the heavy scent of smoke and perfume and sweat enters his nostrils.

 

It’s not the kind of strip-club he would willingly enter until up until a few years ago. Plenty of the girls are decent, hardworking chicks, maybe with stretch-marks and cigarette-stained teeth, but some of them aren’t girls at all. The over made-up faces and hair-styles give them away, though most of the drag queens don’t really make an attempt to hide it. Part of the appeal, apparently – the contrast between masculine and feminine, thick arms and toned thighs hidden under lacy, paper-thin negligees, and flimsy little straps criss-crossing mercilessly powerful shoulders – the effect is immediate and fairly intriguing, he has to admit, if you can get past the initial shock.

 

Four girls sit in the centre of the room, watching the fifth girl prance around on the table, waiting for customers to come and scoop them up and provide their laps. On the far left are three drag queens, huddled together in case anyone tries to give them any problems, so they can holler and fight back if they need to. There are men with thick necks and flannel shirts, ripped jeans and bulges in their pockets scattered all around room, some seated at the bar, drowsy from drink, others taking in the show with enthusiasm, leaned all the way forward in their seats, mesmerised like seamen caught in the spell of a siren.

 

On the far right, someone’s sitting all alone in a booth, lips tight around a cigarette, thick robe around his shoulders, tied gingerly at the waist. His legs are bare, sticking out from under the table they just barely catch the light, glowing white in the darkened room. His eyes aren’t focused on anyone or anything, just looking down at his hands, cheeks hollowing around smoke with every puff he takes.

 

Merle Dixon sets his eyes straight on him, pulls his lapels flat, and starts to walk over.

 

Merle hasn’t been in town the last few months, on an all-expenses-paid trip overseas in Afghanistan, living in a tent and shaking the sand out of his clothes. War isn’t exactly what he expected from watching _Rambo_ when he was a child: there was less ripping up bad guys with his bare hands, and more sitting around waiting to be called on to escort a convoy of civilian vehicles from one shitty, bombed-out village to the next. He’s willing to keep up the illusion of being a stone-cold killer, however, at least to the people in his hometown, who are suddenly a lot more reluctant to say shit about him behind his back and more likely to get out of his way when he comes a-knocking.

 

The people in the bar are currently doing more of the latter, scrambling to sit up straighter in their chairs, turning their faces pointedly away from the man in the doorway. The uniform probably helps with his intimidating appearance – people in these types of places never get along well with men in uniform, Merle knows, from _being_ one of the people in these types of places not so long ago. His collar is tight, and the humidity settling in the bar is sweltering, but it’s a matter of pride to keep it buttoned, head held high as he marches through the bar, bypassing bystanders as he goes, lips tightly sealed and eyes steel.

 

Merle settles down at the booth, sliding across the creaky vinyl bench until he’s square across from the other gentleman, whose eyes still haven’t risen from the table. Merle folds his arms on the round table, leaning over purposefully.

 

“Can I buy you a drink?” Merle asks softly, voice rasping like a match striking on wood.

 

“I’m on break,” the man replies lowly, looking pointedly away. His voice is low with smoke, lips parting around a smoke ring that floats off into the atmosphere, green eyes watching it rise slowly away.

 

Merle huffs out a bit of a laugh, ducking his head. “I figured maybe you’ll make an exception fer lil’ ol’ me.”

 

The man slowly turns to face him, looking ready to give the uniformed stranger a piece of his mind, eyes lighting up like fireflies when he sets eyes on his big brother.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Daryl huffs, ducking his head as a grin spreads across his face. “Coulda told me you were comin’.”

 

Merle can’t help but grin in exchange. “Now where’d be the fun in that?”

 

It’s been a ten months since they last saw each other, parted ways under the light of a streetlamp, like in some deranged trailer-park soap opera. Merle with his head held-high and a split lip decorating his stern face, Daryl wearing a t-shirt and jeans and smoking a cigarette, black eye lighting up with the glowing end of the stick.

 

Merle just stares for a while at his brother, tilting his head, looking this way and that at his face. Smoking and drinking hasn’t been easy on his face, which is cut thick with lines and bags under his eyes making him look older than he is, but in the same way, his narrow features and pale skin makes him still look the kid-brother Merle remembers. The gauntness of his cheeks is emphasized when he sucks them in around his cigarette, nursing the stick until it’s a smoldering nub, unwilling to see it go. His green eyes are dark in the gloom of the room, but as bright and shiny as ever.

 

He also has a bruise over one eye, and Merle instinctively reaches out to touch it, bending over the table and stretching his arm towards his brother’s cheek.

 

Daryl backs away into the booth, curling nervously into himself. He pulls his robe tighter around his shoulders, squeezing the plush fabric with butchered knuckles.

 

“What’s the matter?” Merle asks, unable to help himself getting offended. He’d expected a much warmer greeting, but now Daryl looks like a shy little animal, backed up in his cage.

 

“Whadda you think?” Daryl replies, raising his head so his shiner is clearly bared.

 

Merle didn’t exactly take it well when he got back home after his first tour and found out how Daryl’d been making a living. He’d broken his nose and split his lip and bruised his ribs, all for finding out that his baby brother’d been selling himself in truck stop bathrooms, bars and behind fast food restaurants. Daryl had given as best as he got, however, setting Merle up with a fine-looking split in his lip and a chipped tooth for his trouble, to wear back to basecamp as souvenirs of his time at home.

 

It’s not like Daryl had much choice, after all. He had little education and no job prospects, and not enough money to move away since dad split and took his welfare money with him. He would normally go wherever Merle went, but he was only 16 when Merle joined the forces, one year too early to enlist. He could take a job washing dishes at the bar or he could work the floor instead, and he opted for the latter perhaps out of pure spite, or maybe because he wanted the attention he couldn’t get anywhere else.

 

Merle was angry at himself, really, for not being able to support his brother, and he was pissed at Daryl for being a coward pussy-ass bitch who would rather take it up the ass for money than put himself on the line to protect their freedom – but the much deeper, darker truth was that Merle was jealous as _fuck_ that other men got to have what was _his and his alone_ for years before.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Merle sighs, tilting his head dramatically, “I can be a rough son’bitch sometimes,” he taps his fingers on the table, “but I can be sweet too, you know.”

 

Daryl stays retreated into his side of the booth, rolling his cigarette back and forth in his fingers even now that it’s nothing but an ashy nub. His robe slips lazily from one shoulder, revealing the thin black strap underneath, promising at a shiny and delicate negligee underneath, making Merle’s eyes dilate expectantly. He can’t help it, the way his brother looks these days is…beyond description. He was gorgeous as a trailer-trash, hunter’s boy with thick arms and messy thin hair, but now, dressed up in skimpy lingerie and constantly with something in his lips, cigarette or otherwise, he’s just…too appealing for his own damn good.

 

Merle knows there’s no hiding it. He’s crazy about his brother. No one needs to know but the two of them.

 

“Come on, come on home, let me take care of you,” Merle drawls, reaching forward with one hand like approaching a startled animal.

 

In this setting, Daryl has power over him that Merle isn’t used to. Daryl has the power to refuse and deny his company – but the hold he has over his younger brother doesn’t fade, no matter where they are.

 

Daryl finally lets Merle touch him, letting him stroke a hand down his face, down from his swollen eye down to the point of his chin, thumbing the ridge, smoothing down the wiry stubble. “Come on, darlin’.”

 

“60 bucks,” Daryl annunciates.

 

“Excuse me?” Merle raises an eyebrow. Daryl can’t help but grin at the scandalized look on his face.

 

“60 bucks, that’s what the night’ll cost ya,” Daryl answers plainly, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette and squashing the other one into the ashtray on the table. He puts the new one in his mouth but keeps it unlit, well aware of the implication formed by his lips grasping at the shaft and pulling it in.

 

Merle keeps his patience, reaching under the table and pulling his pressed trousers away from the growing bulge underneath. “Alright, you win. 60 bucks. Little shit.”

 

Daryl giggles a little, so candyfloss-sweet it’s _ridiculous:_ his brother is 50% white trash and 50% fairy princess, Merle thinks in horror. What would their daddy think?

 

No, actually, on second thought, best to not think about that.

 

They might wander home arm-in-arm, no one could stop them. Daryl’s job does at least make it easier for them to wander around like a couple: people are a lot more open-minded around here when it comes to queers long as you’re fuckin’ them and leaving them, rather than trying to have a healthy, long-term relationship with them. And prostitutes are made of tissue – you do your business with them and then throw them out. Merle thought the same, for a good 29 years of his life – until he found out his tough-as-nails, sweet as ice cream little brother was one.

 

They don’t go arm-in-arm, though. Daryl lets his robe fall casually open and shoves his hands in the pockets, letting the night air sweep up around his body, as his ratty sandals clack against the pavement. Merle straightens his lapels and walks with his back arrow-straight, a leftover habit from years standing at attention. It’s like they’re both playing a role in a play, rather than being themselves. On the outside they’re lush Western bar wench and his military suitor, underneath are two white boys with muddy jeans and skinned knees, whiskey breath and cigarette packets rolled up under their sleeves.

 

Walking these country roads feels so familiar to Merle it almost makes him shiver, like he isn’t comfortable in his own skin. The dusty asphalt and out-of-model cars and rickety trailers with the siding beaten off by hail, they belong to him, but he no longer belongs to them. It’s like he’s spent the last three years trying to accept that the game he’s playing at – military man, five-figure salary, dry-clean clothes, worldly nature – isn’t just pretend, but a legitimate new stage of his life.

 

But looking at his brother, dragging his feet, shoulders slouched, ratty hair shining under the streetlamps, is like a wake-up call. This is his home. No matter where he goes, the country air calls him back, whether he wants it to or not. When they get to the trailer, he sets a hand on the small of Daryl’s back and pushes him quickly towards the front door.

 

“I got it, hold on,” Daryl fumbles in the pockets of his robe for the key, clicking it home with a heavy sigh, like the effort is monumental for him. Merle snuffles his disapproval and pushes Daryl through the door, slamming it closed behind him.

 

Once inside, the mask falls.

 

Merle grabs Daryl by the hair and pulls his head back, forcing him into a kiss that has him scrambling backwards into the wall with the force. Merle shoves him into the wall, shoving his tongue into the yawning space of Daryl’s mouth, shoved open by the slack pressure on his jaw, Merle’s hand pressing down on his chin.

 

Daryl moans, a little sound that makes Merle’s heart catch, reaching out for Merle’s shoulder and gripping hard, nails stressing the fabric. He lets himself be taken, pushed, head twisted this way and that for Merle’s access, tongue mixing expertly with his brother’s, like it’s rehearsed. Merle shoves him up against the wall, grabbing his brother’s hips and lifting him, finding him far too skinny and light, hands slipping in the plush fabric of the robe, grinding in hard against his prone pelvis.

 

“ _Damn_ I missed you,” Merle grits out, not even sure if he said it aloud, before diving in for another smacking, biting kiss, holding his brother up with hands under his armpits and hips against his waist. Daryl lifts his legs around Merle’s back, holding on tight for better leverage to grind down against his brother’s erection.

 

“You wanna do this here?” Daryl asks, like it’s all business, which makes Merle see red. Despite the discipline of the army, his temper is still there, as much a part of him as this… _thing_ he has for his brother. He slams his body against Daryl, shoving him into the wall of the trailer so hard it rocks, creaking and swaying with the force. He grips the back of Daryl’s hair and wrenches his neck back, lunging forward to suck a mark into the arcing flesh.

 

“You let them do you against the wall?” Merle asks, a growl in his voice undisguised by his muffled lips.

 

“Look, if that’s what this is about…” Daryl answers, recognizing in his brother’s stiff posture the self-loathing and shame of their last meeting a year ago.

 

“You know what this is about,” Merle growls into Daryl’s neck like a wolf claiming its prey. He guides his mouth down across Daryl’s traps, licking a wet trail across his collarbone, catching the strap of his negligee between his teeth.

 

Daryl sighs, running a hand up through his brother’s freshly-shaved hair, “and what’s that?”

 

“It’s about me, and you,” Merle groans, shifting his grip and pulling Daryl away from the wall, so he’s balanced just in his brother’s arms, arms and legs all wrapped against him, perched just over the place in his jeans that’s bulging and asking for attention. “About me fucking you so hard you can’t walk for a week.”

 

“Best not,” Daryl huffs, “how am I gonna eat?”

 

Merle all but roars in rage, swinging around in the small space and throwing Daryl onto the bed. Daryl keeps his legs wrapped tight around Merle’s back so his brother falls with him, landing on top and making Daryl laugh. The sound that comes out of Daryl is a broken, lazy sound, false and forced and it makes Merle want to hit him. His brother’s lost his fire: the Daryl he left three years ago would never let himself be handled like this, he’d fight back with all his might, never let someone get the upper hand on him.

 

It makes Merle sad. It makes him _angry_.

 

“I’ll give you something to _eat_ ,” Merle grumbles and pushes Daryl from him, standing up beside the narrow single bed, lifting one knee onto the hard mattress. He undoes the front of his slacks and takes his cock out, fisting it roughly one-handed while drawing Daryl over to him with the other.

 

“Eat up,” Merle snaps, feeding Daryl his cock. Daryl rolls over onto his side, reaching out with both hands to take Merle’s hard cock into his mouth, fixing his lips over the crown without hesitation. What he can’t fit in his mouth he pulls with his hands, sucking the shaft as deep as he can on his side, twisting his head as he lifts off with a soft ‘pop’.

 

“This what you’re made for, isn’t it?” Merle growls, running a hand back through Daryl’s long, sweaty hair, twisting it around in his fingers until it’s in knots. “You got a single manly bone in your body, boy?”

 

Daryl takes the derision without flinching, reaching down for his own crotch. His negligee slides up his thighs, folding into silky black waves over his hard member. “Yeah-huh,” he answers, fingering the head through the silk with one hand while jacking Merle with the other.

 

Merle shoves him over with a firm hand on his shoulder, flipping Daryl over until he’s on his back. The silky lingerie sticks to him in all the right places, his chest outlined by the glossy fabric, pooling around his flat stomach and settling just above his cock, which points towards his face, red head gleaming wet and shaft twitching with interest. The vision is just too much, Daryl one-part battered bruiser and two-parts vulnerable catch, lying sprawled out on top of the coverlet, hands twisting in the pillow beside his head.

 

Merle reaches down and snatches Daryl’s hard cock, working it with rough, practiced strokes, pulling at the shaft and tugging down the foreskin over the thick, glossy head. Daryl moans and rolls his hips back and forth, tossing his head sideways into the pillow, biting down on the stuffing to muffle his whimpers of pleasure. Merle presses into the head with his thumb and Daryl jumps, but doesn’t move to stop him, groaning loud as Merle circles his thumb, pushing it down into the narrow hole.

 

“Come on,” Daryl moans, breath coming out in high pants, “you gonna do this or what?”

 

Merle stops abruptly, then, tilting his head in bewilderment. He lets go of Daryl completely, palms raised, stepping backwards. “Nuh-uh, don’t think so. You want your money, you gotta work for it,” he drawls, “ _slut._ ”

 

Daryl doesn’t even react, expression on his face unreadable and sober. He sits up on the bed, shrugging completely out of his robe, leaving it laid out on the bed behind him like a shed skin. Merle hovers in front of him, hands raised as if to say, ‘well, what you waiting for?’, as Daryl leans forward to grasp his cock.

 

Daryl drops his mouth down over the head, the ring of his lips closing expertly around the crown and sinking past, down and down until he’s almost touching his nose to Merle’s stomach, before pulling back up. He gets a hand around the base and strokes gently, calloused hand scraping the smooth flesh, tucking his other hand around the ball sack and squeezing here and there.

 

Merle lets his head fall back, and for a moment, he can almost imagine it’s someone else sucking his dick, someone who has every right to be a whore and who has all the markings of a dime-mag pin-up cocksucker – rather than _his baby brother_ , all lean limbs and soft chest, messy dark hair and teddy-bear stubble… The boy he taught how to swim and fish and take a punch, blond and naïve, fiery and wicked… The image fills Merle with rage and doubt and shame, so he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine he’s somewhere else.

 

The hand on his balls kneads gently, before pushing back, coming up behind and moving towards his asshole and Merle jumps, pushing Daryl automatically away.

 

“What the fuck?!” he all-but shouts, sex-brittle voice rasping away, gripping Daryl’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Daryl just stares up at him, shrugs, shoulders rising and dropping away, a drop of sweat rolling down his arm.

 

The impassiveness is the killer: Merle could take a fight, a punch, an enraged scream, but Daryl just sits there, looking up at Merle like he’s nothing more than an appliance, a means to an end. His eyes are narrow, chest pumping with breath, mouth sealed shut, and Merle can’t stand it.

 

“Alright, I’ve had about enough of this shit,” Merle growls out, undoing his belt and tossing his jacket over his shoulder. The uniform falls to the ground in pieces, like leaves in winter, until he’s in nothing but his slacks and a sweaty white tank top, pants yanked down over his angry-looking erection. He tosses Daryl easily onto his back, ignoring the nails digging into his arms as he holds his brother down.

 

“You can just shut your goddamn mouth and take it like a _good whore should,_ ” Merle says out through grit teeth, kneeing his way between Daryl’s legs, shoving his thighs roughly apart while keeping his arms pinned to the mattress. “I ain’t come all this way to be sass-mouthed by a faggot-slut-whore with no balls and no brain.”

 

Merle reaches down just briefly to lift Daryl up by the hips, settle his legs around Merle’s waist so he’s reclined, back sloping down into the mattress, hips raised into the air. Daryl gives him a glare that could level mountains, and Merle shoves a finger up inside him without warning.

 

Daryl hisses and turns his head, rolling his hips side to side to adjust to the sudden pressure. Merle digs in deep, feeling the unexpected slick of lube inside, his finger sliding in all the way to the root without resistance.

 

“You ready for it already, huh?” Merle murmurs, “just waitin’ for a prick to fill up your asshole, weren’t ya?” He slips his finger out and grinds in a second, scissoring them apart and feeling the way the muscles give readily around his hand. He imagines Daryl getting himself ready, pumpin’ himself full of lube and slick, stretching his hole to prepare for the johns he brings home…

 

Or, _they_ were the ones did it for him…

 

Merle’s hand tenses on Daryl’s shoulder, grip going tight enough to leave pressed white strips in his tan flesh. He sees red, for a moment, nothing but red, and he has to stop himself from strangling something, anything with his bare hands, just to feel the breath run out of it – because he suddenly realizes Daryl might’ve had someone before him today.

 

He wrenches out his fingers and lines up his cock instead, driving it in halfway up into the scalding heat, growling like a beast. Daryl grabs the coverlet and throws back his head, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out as Merle works his way inside, inch by inch, agonizingly quick and hard. He holds back a curse and pants through his nose as he tries to bear the intrusion, willing his legs fall open and his muscles relax to accept the penetration.

 

Once Merle’s fully sheathed Daryl tilts his head and looks down at him, locking eyes and holding his gaze. He doesn’t flinch as Merle starts to move, slow and steady, every thrust pushing Daryl up the bed and dragging him back down against his brother’s lap again.

 

“You fuck some other guys today, huh?” Merle taunts, breathing growing harsh. He lifts Daryl’s legs over his hips and holds them there at the knees, Daryl’s back arching up off the bed as he hits particularly deep. “That why you’re all wet?”

 

Daryl doesn’t answer, expecting his brother is none too interested about the intricacies of his profession, like the amount of enemas he’d taken today, or how long it takes to slick himself up for a john. It’s business Daryl himself is none too keen to talk about, either. But Merle seems unimpressed by his lack of response.

 

Merle grits his teeth and slaps Daryl across the face just about as hard as he can. Daryl’s head whips to the side but he doesn’t even grunt, the sting of the slap burning all the way up his cheek.

 

“Why don’t you tell me about them?” Merle says gently, voice coming in thick, raspy pants. “Come on, now.”

 

Daryl doesn’t say a word. He receives another slap for his defiance. His flesh burns red-hot, face flushing with shame and anger more than pain.

 

“I. Said,” Merle grunts out, punctuating each word with another smack, “tell me about them. The men you fucked.”

 

Merle hits him over and over until Daryl loses count, rage building to a bubbling point and he finally spits out “fine!” and turns to look Merle dangerously in the eyes.

 

“You wanna hear about them? _Fine,”_ Daryl says, voice shaking with every thrust that tears through him. Merle keeps fucking him, hard and solid like a machine, tilting Daryl’s hips down to drive it deep inside him every time. He’s just missing Daryl’s prostate, and on purpose, Daryl knows, chewing his bottom lip, fury blazing in his eyes.

 

“This morning a guy wanted me to blow him; _nngh_ took him two seconds to cum, _mmh_ I swear to God,” Daryl recounts, shaking his head, “he gave me my money and got out like he’d seen a ghost.

 

“Came all over my face, it was dripping down my neck,” Daryl explains, demonstrating by drawing a finger down his cheek, over his lightly-furred chin, and down the side of his throat, watching carefully the way Merle squirms and snarls as he watches, “left me there like that, come all over me, down on my knees…”

 

Merle lets out something bestial and rears up, pulling Daryl closer to his lap and fucking him hard and fast. Daryl moans and tips back his head, gripping the covers while Merle mounts him frantically, slowing down and settling on a steadier pace, but only after Daryl is panting so bad he can barely speak.

 

“Then—there was another… _hah_ …guy,” Daryl gets out, panting through every word, voice breathy like a proper bar slut, lips shiny with spit that dribbles over and down his chin, “big guy. Big cock. A _nigger_.”

 

Merle stares down at him in abject shock like Daryl knew he would, lips forming a thin line when he turns away in silence.

 

“He was so big, it hurt so much, _oooh_ it hurt _so much_ ,” Daryl moans dramatically, twisting his body back and forth, his negligee catching on the coverlet and riding up until it’s nearly over his nipples, the black lace hem rubbing back and forth across the two pink buds. It’s all an act, playing it up for the camera, the way Daryl moves his hips, swaying them like he’s dancing the pole like one of the sluts at the bar.  “He went slow, but he was _so big_ …”

 

He’s doing the taunting now, and Merle is falling for it, can’t help the way it riles him up and Daryl knows it, smirking down at his brother between his legs. He can’t beat his big brother in a physical fight, but damn if he didn’t have a way of getting under his skin.

 

“That get you off? All them faggots lusting after your ass?” Merle teases, lifting his hips so he drives up against Daryl’s prostate, and makes him squirm. Daryl clamps down on his lip to stifle a moan, letting his eyes drift shut.

 

“Ain’t faggots that wanna fuck me,” Daryl answers, slowly opening his eyes and fixing his gaze on Merle’s red, sweating face, “it’s guys like _you_.”

 

Merle growls and leans in close, hissing out through grit teeth,“I oughta beat yo’ ass, boy,” and Daryl just shrugs.

 

“Go ahead, _daddy._ ”

 

Merle looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, face going crimson with rage, flush spreading all the way down to this bare neck and shoulders. He goes to punch Daryl in the face but the younger brother is ready, socking him in the eye before he can get in a hit. He punches again, grunting as he hears skin splitting, Merle jerking away as knuckles connect with his cheekbone. Daryl pulls in his legs, kneeing Merle in the stomach as hard as he can, but from his position he can’t get a good hit, and to his shock, Merle catches his leg instead.

 

He yells in rage, something incomprehensible and _raw_ , pulling out of Daryl and grabbing his hips, tossing him over onto his front with hysterical strength, easily as if he were a ragdoll. Daryl shouts as he hits the mattress face-first, and Merle drags him off the side of the bed by the hips until he’s just draped over the edge with the mattress under his armpits. Merle drops to his knees behind him, the trailer swaying with the weight, and pulls Daryl back into his lap.

 

Merle slides back inside with one brutal thrust, pulling Daryl back against his hips and starting to pound in with rapid, jackhammer thrusts. Daryl hisses, hands scrambling for the covers and holding on for dear life as Merle lays into him behind, mounting him like a dog.

 

“You wanna get fucked er’rynight, fucking no good cunt-ass slut,” Merle rambles, pounding in hard, breath coming out in harsh bursts behind Daryl’s ear, “hope you get your ass reamed out by every ugly-ass nigger in town—”

 

“You’re just like him!” Daryl shouts, finally breaking his unnerving restraint and yelling as loud as he can, “just like him! No good coward, call me names and then pack up and leave when things get rough?!”

 

Merle continues thrusting with vehemence, his rock-hard cock sliding in and out of Daryl’s sucking heat, thighs smacking against Daryl’s ass hard enough to leave bruises.

 

“Doesn’t matter what I say or do, you _leave!_ Y’ _always leave!!_ ” Daryl screams, voice raw and hoarse, jumping high with the pain. His knees scrape the cheap carpet of the trailer as Merle slows his thrusts. He hasn’t come yet, keeping himself hard out of spite, Daryl knows it. Daryl’s dick sags half-hard between his legs, the pain too much to come on alone, even with the familiar, hot weight of his brother all against his back, skin to skin, heartbeat thudding against his spine.

 

“You _left!_ ” Daryl nearly sobs, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist, “left me all alone. I din’t have nothin’, didn’t know nothin’… and _you left!_ ”

 

Merle pauses, then pulls out completely, grabbing Daryl’s jaw and pulling it around to look at him. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut, tears dribbling down his nose, and not from the pain. Merle is struck, for a moment, at how much the sweet baby brother he suddenly looks, and wonders if he hadn’t got somethin’ terribly wrong.

 

Merle’s always at a loss for words at a time like this, so he moves physically instead, guiding Daryl’s hips until he’s lying back on the floor, in the narrow space next to the bed. Daryl goes obediently, lying back, pulling over to his discarded robe to wipe his eyes with. His face is all red on one side, to match Merle’s eye, and puffy lip.

 

Daryl swallows, suddenly shy, like he didn’t just have this man’s dick inside him, lifting his hand cautiously to Merle’s face. Merle answers by cupping the back of Daryl’s head and pulling him into a kiss, gentle and passionate, slick with blood from a split lip. Daryl moans and opens to the kiss instantly, jaw sliding slack and lips parting to let in his brother’s seeking tongue, rolling his hips up towards him subconsciously. Merle holds himself steady and slides back inside, slowly this time, entering him gentle but firm, sinking in to that fiery heat.

 

“Don’t leave me,” Daryl says hopelessly, subconsciously, rocking his hips in counterpoint to the steady, smooth rhythm Merle begins. “Don’t leave me.” A whisper, meaningless, ambient, lost to the evening.

 

Merle stares down at his brother, trying to hide his shock under a firm grimace. Something seems wrong. He looks down Daryl’s body and sees the red marks on his hipbones, the bruises on his shoulders…maybe he wasn’t too far off with the comparison to their father, Merle thinks with a nauseated lurch of his stomach, stroking a hand softly down his thigh.

 

He moves slowly, picking up the pace and reaching for Daryl’s cock, stroking it to hardness and losing himself in the way Daryl writhes with pleasure, back curving and arching, chest rising with breath, black fabric sticking all over him with sweat. He starts to shudder with pleasure, eyes gliding subconsciously closed, and _damn_ if he doesn’t look just so much better now that the act is dropped, the put-on laugh replaced by a breathy, honest sigh of relief.

 

“That’s it, takin’ me so good,” Merle encourages, subconscious, in harsh counterpoint to his earlier slurs, bending his toes underneath him so he can reach just the right angle inside his brother that makes him moan and disappear for a moment, lost in the pleasure of being touched in that one spot. “Your hole’s takin’ me in so good.”

 

It’s as close to an apology as Merle’s gonna offer, and Daryl decides to reward him.

 

“It remembers who taught it in the first place,” Daryl murmurs, and Merle _aches_ with pleasure at the admission, cock twitching impatiently after being denied so long, going rock-hard and rigid deep inside Daryl’s body. Daryl whimpers, adoring the feeling of being filled, Merle riding him through his orgasm, hard cock splashing Daryl’s insides with hot cum.

 

Daryl reaches down and joins Merle’s hand stroking him, pulling just a few dozen times before he comes too, hips lifting off the ground, hole twitching and clenching around the thick shaft inside. He savours the moment just a bit longer before starting to pull away, but Merle grips his hips and pulls him flush again, still inside, flaccid member tight in Daryl’s body.

 

“Just a minute,” he whispers, and Daryl looks at his brother for a good, long moment. They lock eyes, Daryl looking away first, off to the side.

 

They separate and Daryl wipes himself clean with tissues, tossing the soiled lot unceremoniously in the corner, wrapping himself in his robe again. Merle zips up and climbs up on the narrow bed, barely big enough to hold one man of his stature, let alone two, but he manages to get Daryl to lie down in front of him, spooning him from behind without one word shared between them for a long while.

 

Merle’s about to open his mouth when Daryl begins, “there was another guy. Sheriff. Badge and everythin’. Just had a fight with his ol’ lady.

 

“Drunk off his ass,” he explains. “Blabberin’ on about how he was gonna take me away. Gonna marry me, y’know, n’ one a’ them Yankee states where it’s legal.”

 

Merle snorts. “How’d that work out for ya?”

 

Daryl goes quiet. “M’ still here, ain’t I?”

 

Merle’s hand goes around Daryl’s hip to rest on his stomach, rubbing in a circle, smoothing the silky fabric of his lingerie against his soft skin. For a moment he recalls how they were as children, huddled up for warmth in the dead of winter, in a cabin with no heating and not enough blankets to spare, daddy using liquor to warm his old bones. Of course, in those days, Daryl would lie facing him, face pressed into Merle’s chest, snug under his chin, clinging to him like he was his only salvation in the whole world.

 

“Lemme at least pay yer rent this month,” Merle says like it’s an order, but it’s really a bargain. Daryl climbs out of his arms.

 

“Fuck your money,” Daryl answers, raising a middle finger in his brother’s direction. He gets shakily to his feet, wincing as he awkwardly stands, pulling a cigarette out of his robe pocket to distract himself from the pain.

 

“I could put you on m’ pension as a dependent, or…” Merle continues, uselessly. Daryl tries to lean over to pick up his uniform jacket, bending at the waist with great difficulty and snatching the thing from the ground, tossing it roughly at his brother.

 

“Ain’t never been dependent on nobody,” Daryl answers jaggedly, walking over to the coffeemaker on the narrow counter space of the trailer. He starts to rummage for the instant mix and then changes his mind, taking the adjacent bottle of Jack instead.

 

“Are y’all at least gonna let me stay the night?” Merle asks, eyes trained on Daryl’s back as the man swigs the liquor and spits in the sink.

 

“If you can manage to stick around that long,” Daryl answers spitefully, and heads outside to take a cigarette.


End file.
